Ensnared

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Rowling owns them all. I merely play with her characters.

Hermione Jane Granger.

She repeats her name, soft mutters to herself as she paces around the room, constantly running through her mind so she won’t forget. She can’t forget who she is because then all hope will be lost. Days have become weeks and she no longer knows how long she has been here. Her hair is longer, nearly reaching her arse, and the stone beneath her feet is cold now so she thinks it must be winter.

He never tells her. It is not something she has earned, to learn the date or even the time. He brings her books when she is docile and hurts her when she fights. The fight has not left her, will never leave her, but she has learned how to control her anger and frustration. She prefers rewards to punishment.

It no longer makes her feel guilty to think of herself. The war has been lost, after all, and all those she loves are dead or imprisoned in cells of their own. He is all she sees, all she will ever see, and he is less cruel when she minds. Hermione has always been a good student and it doesn’t take her long to apply her mind to her fate as she would do a classroom exercise. It is how she survives, how she remains unbroken in a world that wishes to see her destroyed.

He protects her, keeps her alive, and she now looks forward to his visits. His wife is gone, killed by one of his fellow Death Eaters while Hermione was still free and this reality was simply a nightmare, and she has no idea what has happened to his son. Before her capture, Draco had been a spy for the Order so she assumes he is either dead or eluded detection to now thrive in this world where Voldemort has triumphed.

These are things she never learns. When he comes to her, he tells her of Potter’s defeat and how she is fortunate that he found her before any of the others. She is lucky. He curses her when she is bad but the horrors she always imagined are things of bad dreams and not anything she’s experienced. He does not force her to be nude, does not molest her, has not raped her.

There are books when he visits. He sits with a glass of wine and talks to her about what she reads, tells her brief hints of what is happening to the world outside of the four walls of her room, and sometimes he simply sits and watches her. She is allowed to bathe when she earns the reward and often he will allow her the privilege of sitting at his feet while he brushes her hair. There is never a lack of pretty robes to wear and he treats her like a favorite pet.

Hermione Jane Granger.

She rebels at being treated in such a way but she can not anger him. He would stop visiting, stop bringing her books and allowing her to use her mind during conversations with him, and she does not dare think of what others might do to her, do to Harry Potter’s best friend, if he tires of her and gives her away. In a twisted way that is reminiscent of the eager student she has always been, she likes to please him, likes to earn rewards.

When he comes to her, he brings another book for her. She thanks him and waits, uncertain if he wants her to sit at his feet and read or sit on the bed. He sits and pours a glass of wine, which he offers to her. She accepts the glass and drinks when he arches a pale brow. He has a glass and simply watches her. The wine is sweet and a shock after the water she normally drinks except when he is generous and allows her pumpkin juice.

She smiles when he tells her she has earned a reward, pleased when he waves his wand and the bath appears. His gaze never leaves her as she shyly removes her robe and watches him for a reaction that has begun to intrigue her. She is more comfortable with her nudity now than she was in the beginning. The voice that tells her she should cover up, that she should fight and never allow this man to see so intimately has grown quiet as the days pass by and she adjusts to this new life as best as she can.

The bath water is warm and she washes obediently when he mentions the back of her neck, her breasts, and the area between her legs. He calls it her cunt, a vulgar term she often heard the boys in her dorm use, but he makes it sound seductive and her body shudders as she rubs the flannel over the damp curls. She looks at him in a way that has unconsciously become habit during the past weeks and wonders what his hands feel like and if it would please him to touch her.

He finishes his glass and then smiles, a subtle twisting of lips that precedes a low whisper that it’s finally time.

Time for what, she isn’t sure. She begins to analyze the statement, finding comfort in the familiar logic and puzzles that keep her mind active. When he tells her to step out of the bath, she obeys with only a slight hesitation. It is the slight delay in her following his instructions that causes his eyes to narrow in a way that makes her shudder.

She watches him stand and remove his robe. He is bare beneath, pale skin and sharp angles, and her gaze lingers on the erect flesh that she has only ever seen in books. This is new, something he has never done, and she finds herself curious as well as flushed. Water and bubbles drip from her body as she stands on the cold stone floor, not daring to lower her head or cover herself because she wishes to please him. If he is happy with her, he will stay and talk about her latest book.

She likes when he stays.

The towel is soft against her skin and she knows she must have a curious look on her face because he brushes his fingers through her hair and calls her a good pet. She frowns at the title, as she always does, but she does not speak up as she once would have done, when she first came to wake in this room. A cell, the voice insists, regardless of lush bedding and warm fire. It is hers, she argues as she looks at him, at the one who has saved her from a certain painful death, and she is grateful for the soft touch of towel and the way the flesh between his legs seems to throb when she licks her lips.

Distantly, she knows what is to happen. It is something she expected to be taken from her, rough and cruel, when she first woke to find herself a captive of an escaped Death Eater. When she heard the news of Harry’s death, she had anticipated her own surely to follow within moments. She has never thought that hours would become days would become weeks. She has never imagined freely giving something he’d have had to forcefully take those first weeks.

He finishes drying her and she feels warmth in her belly as his smooth fingertips lightly trace the curve of her spine. She trembles in the cool air and looks to him for guidance. His lips curve into a predatory smile as he leads her towards the floo. The flames warm her skin and she gasps when her vision suddenly goes away with a whisper of a charm from his lips.

His hands move along her arms as he raises them, placing her palms on the mantle of the fire. Another whisper of a charm and she finds them bound to the hard wood. She is scared in the darkness and tries to pull away but she can’t move her hands. His hands move over her body then, touching and squeezing, distracting her from her worry and fear. His tongue is wet against back as he licks a path from shoulderblades to the curve of her arse.

Every touch leaves a trail of warmth nearly surpassing the heat from the flames before her. He spreads her legs and her breath catches when she feels his tongue against her there, lapping at the wetness that is flowing. She can think of nothing but the feel of his tongue and fingers, the soft brush of his hair against her thighs as he laves every swollen inch of her cunt with his tongue. The vulgar word, even thought in her mind, causes her to whimper as a sweet tension begins to build.

Before she finds release, he pulls back, his chuckle warm against her leg as he teases and torments, taking delight in her reaction. She is forced to step back, her body straining as her bound hands refuse to move. His hand squeezes her breast roughly, fingers pulling at her nipple until she whines with pain, quickly followed by a swipe of his tongue against her breast. His fingers move between her legs, stroking and teasing but never giving her release.

He says the most wicked things, each word arousing her even more, and she tries to focus, to listen, but he is touching her and licking and it is just too much. He refuses to give her release for what feels like hours, calling her filthy names that are always followed by a soft lick and rough squeeze, and soon she is begging, as he wants. She needs, and he knows it. He will never take what is not given freely, taking too much delight in her offering herself with words of please and yes.

She feels his body against her back, his erection rubs against her wetness and only serves to heighten her arousal as she arches up against his chest. She is so sensitive, feeling every touch and hearing every word as her world remains dark. When he pushes inside her, she isn’t ready for the penetration. She is wet and he slides in but she’s too tight and there’s a slight pain as he takes her offering. She cries out as he thrusts completely inside; his hands grip her hips hard as he calls her his pretty pet and tells her she is his, that she is so tight, tells her that this is where she belongs, tells her this is what she is made for. She feels the pain begin to dull as he starts to move.

The ache is soon replaced with a low throb of pleasure as he pulls out and pushes in, her body eventually adjusting to his presence. She feels sweat trickle down her back and along the curve of her cheeks as the fire seems to become warmer, and her body pushes back for more. He bites her shoulder hard as he pushes up and grunts. She feels warmth inside her as he spills, her own release so very close but continuing to be kept from her. She moans and asks, please please please. He touches her then, rubs her until she is whimpering, her body shuddering as she comes.

She is sore and sweaty but he whispers words of praise as he pulls out of her so she doesn’t mind. She feels wetness between her legs, dripping down her thighs, and it feels rather disgusting. She smiles, though, because he is pleased with her. His hand moves through her hair, petting her as he releases the charm binding her hands to the mantle. She is pulled to the bed and he doesn’t bother to clean her before he pushes her against the mattress and moves to lie beside her.

His arm is heavy around her waist, holding her possessively against him when he finally removes the charm he has placed on her eyes. She blinks as the darkness fades, ignoring the voice that tells her she is repulsive and that this is wrong. He tells her to sleep and promises her pumpkin juice in the morning for being such an agreeable pet.

She has no idea that the headline of the Daily Prophet that Lucius has just read proclaimed Potter a Hero before detailing the way he has finally destroyed Voldemort. She doesn’t know that there is a smaller article stating that celebrations are postponed until Harry Potter and Ron Weasley find their missing friend who they’ve been looking for the entire time. She doesn’t know there is a story about her, detailing a kidnapping by escaped Death Eater Lucius Malfoy over three months prior during a trip to Diagon Alley. Nor does she know that they have vowed not to rest until they find her because neither of them believes she is dead. They refuse to believe it, the paper says.

Instead, she snuggles closer to the man who she believes has saved her from Voldemort, thinking about pumpkin juice in the morning and possibly a new book. She is still sore but it doesn’t seem that bad as she feels the warm of the fire and the body beside her against her bare skin. She isn’t his pet, a voice argues, but it is becoming increasingly difficult to listen when this is her life now. If she pleases him, he gives her pleasure and keeps her alive. As she drifts off to sleep, a stubborn voice that refuses to give up hope reminds her: Hermione Jane Granger.

The End